


memory

by schuylering



Series: gravity i never learned [3]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Gen, media fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-18 02:00:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5893822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schuylering/pseuds/schuylering
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Yeah," he says, voice slightly raspy. "Eliza, I—" He stops.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>"I know," she says softly. "It's my fault too, it was a stupid idea and I shouldn't have brought it up."</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>"It wasn't a stupid idea," Alex tells her, easier to talk about it with his eyes closed, her hand smoothing over his hair. "It was a good idea, I'm just—" He stops: the only time he ever struggles for words is in this, trying to explain a history that he's done his best to smother completely. "I know how to talk about anything," he tries to explain, "but I don't know how to talk about this.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	memory

**Author's Note:**

> warnings for some ptsd-adjacent issues, though the character in question doesn't recognize or acknowledge them as such.
> 
> \- the dates are messed up intentionally--2023 won't be the start of a new presidential term in the real world, but i offset the dates by two years (a la the west wing) because it felt less weird to me that way. plus, it makes my timeline make the most sense.  
> \- eliza serves on the board of a big d.c. charity that does a lot with trying to improve group homes/foster care/orphanages/supported living/etc., which is the board mentioned here.  
> \- eliza is pregnant with beth here, their youngest kid.

"I'm Just Here to Do My Job": Secretary Hamilton Talks the Economy, His Background

_Washington's controversial new Treasury Secretary on his childhood in Puerto Rico, his ties to the Latino community, and why everyday Americans should care about Wall Street's fate_

By James Fenno April 15, 2023

The young—dare I say hip—Mr. Hamilton shows up to our interview in the ubiquitous politician's suit, long hair pulled back in a bun that would seem more Bed-Stuy than D.C. But this unlikely member of the president's cabinet has swiftly established himself in the American political scene, setting D.C., along with the rest of the country, abuzz. 

Born in Puerto Rico, Hamilton lived there until he was 17, when he joined the U.S. Army and completed two tours in Iraq. Soon after returning stateside, Hamilton was accepted to Columbia University, where he completed a double political science/economics degree in three years. Taking a summer off to marry Eliza Schuyler (yep, those Schuylers), he resumed study at Columbia, this time at their prestigious law school, where he graduated three years later at the age of 26. 

All pretty impressive. But outside the circle of New York lawyers—Hamilton practiced law for a decade previous to his cabinet appointment—and readers of Page 6—see above his marriage into the Schuyler clan—Hamilton remained an unknown.

What has the country talking now, though, is his recent induction as Treasury Secretary—the first time that a Puerto Rican will be a member of the president's cabinet. President Washington announced the appointment Tuesday, and the reaction from the people was immediate and explosive—especially considering the fact that "Treasury Secretary" and "household name" don't usually go together. But Hamilton seems be breaking new ground everywhere he goes. 

When asked about the reaction to his appointment, Hamilton shrugs, but he seems agitated. "They can say what they want," he says, "but they're wrong if they think they can intimidate me—or President Washington. I've heard people say I'm an illegal immigrant, that's not true. I'm an American citizen. It doesn't matter where I was born, it matters what I can do here, now." (Mr. Hamilton drove that point home slightly more emphatically in a video that's recently gone viral, reiterating the sentiments expressed here followed by several other comments the poster of the video judiciously bleeped out.)

_(Continued on page A16, "Hamilton")_

*

Morning light spills into the kitchen, and Alexander squints against it, scrolling through his phone. He drained his mug of coffee too fast and now he's jittery, discontent. 

A soft, "Hi," distracts him, and he looks up: Eliza's in the kitchen doorway, dressed but barefoot still, her hair uncombed.

"Hi," he replies, smiling at her. He reaches a hand out, and she comes over to him, leaning down and kissing him lightly.

"You're up," she says, sounding vaguely surprised. "And not at work."

"Washington says I can't come in before seven," Alex grouses. Eliza just laughs. "What?"

"It's cute when he mothers you," she tells him.

"It's annoying," he mutters. "And unnecessary. And totally inappropriate—I don't even work in the White House. I mean, he's practically giving me a curfew." Eliza hums softly to show she's listening, pulling bread out of the cabinet. "I'm pretty sure he talked to my building security."

"He cares about you," she says patiently.

"Well, he shouldn't," Alexander mutters, realizing he's being petulant and not particularly caring. "He has an entire country to care about, and I can take care of myself."

Eliza doesn't reply, instead saying, "I want to talk to you about something." 

Alexander frowns. "You're trying to distract me."

"Yes," she says easily, smiling a little. "But I really did want to talk to you."

"Okay, fine," he says. "I'm distracted. What is it?"

She looks down, fiddling with the dial on the toaster. It occurs to him that this is something real, that she wasn't just trying to get his mind off Washington and his coddling. 

"Eliza?" he asks, softer. "What is it?"

"Um," she says, "the board—we're having a dinner, with different speakers, and they—they want me to speak."

"Seriously?" he says. "That's great."

"Yeah," she says, smiling nervously. "I was wondering—I guess I was wondering if you could look it over? I don't want help writing it," she says quickly. "I want to do it on my own. But just—make sure it doesn't sound terrible."

"It won't sound terrible," he says.

"I know," she says, but he's not sure she does. She's always been insecure about her writing, from college papers to emails, and equally insecure about speaking in front of people: he remembers her trying to write her toast for Angelica's wedding, staring at a blank piece of paper until she was almost in tears. "Just—I want to make sure."

He nods. "Okay. Do you have it?"

"Right now?" she asks, sounding slightly nervous.

"Yeah," he says. "I have—" he checks his watch "—forty-five minutes until I can leave for work."

She laughs softly. "All right. I'll get it."

She goes upstairs and comes back down again with a few neatly-typed sheets of paper. She hands them to Alexander, sitting down across from him and waiting intently as he reads them over.

"It's good," he says, looking up from the last sentence. It is: she writes clearly about the organization's work and what it means to her, affecting but not maudlin. 

She shakes her head. "You're just saying that. I want to know—I want it to be good." She looks down, straightening the corner of the paper nervously. 

"And I'm saying it _is_ good," Alex says, trying not to sound too amused.

She sighs a little, frustrated. "I know there are things wrong with it," she says. "You won't be hurting my feelings, I just want to know what they are so I can fix them." 

She has a stubborn set to her mouth that Alexander knows by now means she won't be backing down from this; relenting, he slides the speech toward him, scanning it over. "Here," he says, grabbing a pen and underlining part of the first section. "Be more emphatic here—you get lost in adjectives. And add a sentence here—" He goes through the pages, underlining a few things and circling a few others as he talks, before handing it back to her.

She nods. "Thanks," she says. She studies it for another few moments, then glances up at him. "You know," she says slowly, watching him like she's waiting for a reaction, "we're looking for another speaker—someone just dropped out yesterday."

He nods. "You want me to ask around?"

"No," she says, like it should be obvious. "I'm asking if you want to speak."

He just stares at her for a moment, then snorts. "No."

"Why not?"

He raises his eyebrows in disbelief. "They don't want to hear me speak, Eliza," he tells her. "They don't wanna hear from people who actually went through the system."

"I went through the system," Eliza challenges him.

"Yeah," he says, "but you're a nice, Chinese girl who got adopted by a nice, rich family when you were two years old," he tells her. "I'm a poor Latino kid who was in and out of shitty foster care until one of said shitty foster parents signed my Army papers, okay, I am exactly the opposite a who they wanna hear from."

"I don't think that," she says evenly, in contrast to the way he knows his voice has been rising steadily. "Your experience is exactly what we're trying to fix about the system. The board wants people like you involved, Alexander."

He just shakes his head, rubbing a hand over his mouth. "No, they don't," he says, and his tone is too sharp and he knows he's going to say something bad, and soon, but he can't seem to stop himself. "They just wanna look good while they get by doing absolutely nothing."

"That's not true," Eliza says quietly.

"Yeah, it is," Alex says, leaning forward on the table. "Cause this shit is never gonna be fixed, okay? There are always gonna be people like me, and most of them aren't gonna be good enough or smart enough to get themselves out the way I did. So you're always gonna have kids crammed into group homes that ain't big enough and slapped around by shitty foster dads who ain't been evaluated good enough, you're always gonna have kids slipping through the cracks and nothing a board can do is gonna fix that. That's just the way the world works, Eliza."

There's a hurt look in Eliza's eyes he knows he's going to feel awful about once he makes it to the other side of this sudden anger, almost panic, that's gripping his chest. "I'm sorry you think that," she says, just as quiet, but firm. Then she stands up from the table, gathering her speech and lining up the edges of the papers. "I'm going to go upstairs and edit this."

Alexander watches her leave, the dregs of his anger—not at her, never at her, but still—turning rapidly into guilt. "Eliza," he calls after her, wanting, needing to fix this: the panic comes back as he watches her walk away from him, the sudden gripping anxiety that maybe she's not planning on coming back.

But she does look back. Says, "Alexander. I'm going upstairs now."

This time he watches her leave in silence, something gripping his throat. He wants to call after her again, wants to beg her to come back and not be mad. There's a sick feeling in his stomach, and he knows the image of her walking away from him is going to stay with him the rest of the day.

He tears his eyes from the now-empty doorway, and checks the clock. 6:15. Close enough.

*

"Sir," Alexander is saying, "this entire section is bullshit—sorry, sir, but it is," he adds, when Washington gives him a sharp look. "Give me an hour and I'll have something better."

Denying the strong urge to glance beseechingly at the heavens, Washington instead merely raises his eyebrows. Jefferson seems to have no such compunctions, rolling his eyes with a flourish. "Sir," he says, "while Secretary Hamilton's enthusiasm is appreciated—"

Alexander muffles a cough that sounds suspiciously like the words _fuck off_.

"—we're here to discuss the actual content of the speech."

"I know," Washington says in as measured a tone as he can. The rest of the cabinet is watching Jefferson and Hamilton like a tennis match, eyes flicking from one to the other, and Washington clears his throat pointedly. Alexander is practically glowering, shoulders hunched up, and Washington fights the protective, paternal instinct he's never quite managed to shed when it comes to Alex. "Any non-style-related notes?"

"Respectfully, sir, my comments were about more than style," Alexander says, not overly respectfully. "Also, we should cut the immigration section for time."

"But with the vote on the border patrol bill—" Jefferson says quickly.

"Sir," Alexander says, not even looking at Jefferson, "we shouldn't endorse it. It doesn't have enough momentum to get anywhere, and you should be careful about endorsing doomed legislature this early in your presidency. Or, well, at any time in your presidency, but you get my meaning."

"Really?" Jefferson asks him, looking over at him half-smirking. "I thought you'd be all over this bill." 

He doesn't have to say anything else: Alexander turns to him, glaring. "What?" he demands sharply. "Just cause I came here legally, I should support people who don't?" 

"Alex," Washington says warningly, before Jefferson gets a chance to open his mouth again. He doesn't say anything else, but it's enough to refocus Alexander's attention on him instead of Jefferson.

"Sir," he replies icily. He hates it when Washington calls him Alex in the White House. 

"Let's get back to the issue at hand," Washington says wearily. "Hamilton, we have an actual communications director who can and will write my speeches."

"But, sir—"

"However," Washington says, slightly louder, "as parts of it pertain to economic policy I see no reason why you shouldn't be able to look over a draft." He turns to Knox, ignoring Alexander's smug look. "Have your people draft some comments—the military's going to be involved in this budget plan no matter what," he says, then pauses. "In terms of policy, not, obviously, actual military involvement."

"If only," he hears Alexander mutter wistfully.

"All right," Wshington says, "that's it for today. Gentlemen," he dismisses them, nodding, and gets up, leaving the room.

It takes him a few moments to realize that Alexander is behind him, walking quickly to catch up. "Was there something else?" Washington asks mildly.

"Yes, sir," Alexander says. He catches up, walking beside him for several moments while he seems to fight to get something out, or to keep something else in. "Sir," he says finally; Washington notices that his hands are curled into fists at his sides. "Call me Hamilton when we're working. Please," he tacks on stiffly.

"I usually do," Washington points out mildly.

"I'm not a kid," Alexander goes on. "I'm not some—some unruly child who has to be reined in, okay. You're the one who gave me this job. Treat me like a deserve it."

"I'm sorry," Washington says. He does understand, and even more he understands Alexander's desperate need to prove himself, his constant insecurity. He doesn't mention that, though—he's never mentioned it, not even sure Alex quite understands why he is the way he is.

Alexander keeps talking like Washington said nothing. "Just because you know me shouldn't mean—wait, what?" he says suddenly, like his mind just caught up to his mouth.

"I apologized," Washington says, tone even so it won't become amused. "I understand, and I'll try to be better about it in the future."

Alexander looks at a loss, like he doesn't know what to do now he doesn't have a battle to fight. "Oh," he says finally. "Okay."

"Okay," Washington repeats. He reaches the reception area of the Oval Office, and pauses. "Was there anything else?

"No, sir," Alexander says, somewhat stiffly. "Good night, sir."

Washington nods to him. "Good night, Hamilton."

*

Alexander comes home late, well after dinner, and sneaks quietly into his study and closes the door. He's thankful Eliza didn't notice or, more likely, let him think she hadn't noticed. He needs to talk to her, he knows, but he hasn't come up with the words yet—already a disconcerting feeling. 

He sits down at his desk and stays there, eyes weary from the bright screen, for hours. It's past one when there's a soft knock on the door. "Yeah," he says hoarsely.

Eliza steps into the room, one hand still on the doorknob. He'd convinced himself it wasn't going to be her—it was Philip needing last-minute help on tomorrow's homework, maybe, or else he'd imagined it altogether—but now she's here, standing in the doorway in her pajamas, and he can't quite look her in the eye.

"Are you coming to bed?" she asks softly.

He shakes his head. "Not yet. I have—" he gestures vaguely to his laptop "—stuff."

She smiles a little. "Alex, you're doing the crossword."

"Which is, technically speaking, stuff," he shoots back. He frowns a little. "How did you know that?"

"You looked too relaxed to be working."

"Ah." He rubs his forehead, leaning one elbow on his desk. "Any ideas about a six-letter word for 'pride'?" he jokes weakly.

"Alexander," she says, "I'm not mad at you."

He looks down at his keyboard; he needs a new one, several letters on this one worn off completely. "I know," he says, though he doesn't.

"Alex," she says, and walks farther into the room, coming around to his side of the desk. She leans against it, next to him, and he looks up at her. She's wearing a pair of his boxers and a t-shirt, always what she wears as pajamas when she's pregnant: she insists that nothing else is comfortable. They stare at each other for a long moment, until Eliza says again: "I'm not mad."

He knows she sees straight through him, knows she knows not to believe him if he says again, _I know_. So he says instead what he's been meaning to say since she left the kitchen. "I'm sorry."

"I know," she says.

"I am," he says, needing to convince her. "I love what you do, Eliza, and I was being an asshole for no reason, and I'm really, really sorry."

She reaches out to him, brushing a few stray strands of hair back behind his ear. He leans into her almost on instinct, resting his forehead against her hip. For a few moments she continues to smooth loose strands of hair back from his forehead, before she says, "I know you're sorry. And, Alex—I do think it was for a reason, and I'm not going to make you talk about it, but—but I know it wasn't about me. And that's good, but also." She pauses for a moment. "Just don't yell at me for things that aren't about me, okay?"

"Yeah," he says, voice slightly raspy. "Eliza, I—" He stops.

"I know," she says softly. "It's my fault too, it was a stupid idea and I shouldn't have brought it up."

"It wasn't a stupid idea," Alex tells her, easier to talk about it with his eyes closed, her hand smoothing over his hair. "It was a good idea, I'm just—" He stops: the only time he ever struggles for words is in this, trying to explain a history that he's done his best to smother completely. "I know how to talk about anything," he tries to explain, "but I don't know how to talk about this.”

He looks up at her in time to see her nod, calm, like she already understands. He remembers the first time he told her anything about his childhood, laying in her dorm room, limbs tangled and his head tucked against the crook of her shoulder. He remembers it like a photograph, the first time he can remember feeling safe since he was a little kid. He remembers telling her everything, or almost everything, some stuff he hadn't talked about since his first tour and some he hadn't talked about ever. The night his dad left, his big hand on Alex's head as he whispered, _see you later, kid_ ; the way he'd climb out of his own hospital bed and crawl into his mom's even when he should've been too sick to stand. Coming home from school one day to his cousin's still-unfamiliar apartment to find his brother looking pale and sick and telling him _don't look_ , but looking anyway; getting hired at the resort when he figured out that he could get out of the group home if he had a job, even if he was too young and looked younger and was still sick all the time. Working his way from bellhop to desk clerk to manager in everything but name, running to whole hotel by the time he left; at the same time tearing his way through high school, graduating early so he could go to the group home leader the day he turned seventeen, give him the Army forms to sign. 

He closes his eyes, resting his head against her side. He wants to say again, _I'm sorry_ , but something seems to be caught in his throat. Eliza smooths her hand over his hair, fingers cool and dry on his forehead; almost unconsciously, he brings a hand up to her stomach, noticeably curved by now.

"Come to bed, okay?" Eliza says softly hand stilling on his hair until it's just a warm, comforting weight.

"Yeah," Alexander says, voice hoarse. "Okay."

*

_(Continued from A3, "Hamilton")_

Hamilton doesn't seem to need help becoming a divisive figure on the American political scene. But even without his sharp tongue, the position he's in—a Puerto Rican immigrant about to become one of the President's right-hand men—would be enough to set pundits and Tweeters alike talking. Add to that his unfiltered tendency to speak his mind, and the political dynamite seems ready to explode.

When asked about his background, however, Hamilton becomes uncharacteristically tight-lipped. Not one to plumb his humble origins for political points, he has little to say about his childhood in Puerto Rico. (When asked, he admits he's never even been back for a visit.) Though he's a native Spanish speaker, his English is accentless, and he makes sure to add quickly that he's not just fluent in Spanish and English, but also French.

Is he worried that pulling away from his roots might make him less appealing to the Latino community? "I'm not trying to appeal to the Latino community. I'm not trying to appeal to anyone," he says with the blunt honesty that seems to be becoming a trademark. "I'm just here to do my job."

Speaking of his job, economics might seem like a strange field for somehow who grew up in the _barrio_ s of San Juan, but Hamilton disagrees: "Money is the most important issue in our country today—who has it, who doesn't—and it's where the most work needs to be done," he says, eyes alight with a fervor for his subject. "The economy is a catchphrase, but no one's willing to actually do anything about it—or even learn how it works," he adds. 

Though much of Hamilton's policy seems rooted in true-blue Democrat economics—Republicans are already protesting promised tax hikes—there have been just as many accusations from his own party that his so-called reforms will only benefit Wall Street, relying on Reagan-esque trickle-down economics for its touted benefits for those Americans making less than seven figures. Hamilton denies this: "You can't fix one part of the economy and ignore the others," he explains. "Do I pay attention to Wall Street? Or course. Does that mean I'm ignoring every other level of the economy? Of course not."

His dramatic—some say drastic—economic policies and unique background are enough to get him attention, but his staid beliefs and opinions indicate greater staying power. He finds himself, by choice or default, at the center of a number of hot-button issues, and so it seems Mr. Hamilton's political future remains to be seen.

**Author's Note:**

> on tumblr at [schuylering](http://schuylering.tumblr.com/). come say hi! i also have a [tag](http://schuylering.tumblr.com/tagged/gravity-i-never-learned-tag) for headcanons and prompts and things for this au.


End file.
